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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29239623">The Art of Adapting</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrHooty/pseuds/MrHooty'>MrHooty</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Bleach</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 10:07:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,154</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29239623</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrHooty/pseuds/MrHooty</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Grimmjow and Nelliel start fresh in the Human World, and struggle to find normalcy. (grimmnel)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Grimmjow Jaegerjaques/Nelliel Tu Oderschvank</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So this was requested a long time ago on my tumblr (grimmnelfanfics), but I just recently decided to write a second part. So this will be two chapters, but posted one right after the other.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Grimmjow examines himself in the bathroom mirror, disturbed by the sheer amount of detail put into this body. He twists this way and that, his fingers tracing the tanned skin with a hesitance unbecoming of him. This body is impeccable, a frighteningly accurate model of his own. Every follicle of hair, exactly as he remembers it. His hand drifts across the wax-smooth scar on his chest, the raised indentations across his clavicle, and then the wholly uncharted span of his abdomen. A navel, the thin trail of hair underneath. His thumb smooths over it, brow furrowed in thought.</p><p>It’s disconcerting.</p><p>He has the urge to take his sword and carve out the slab of flesh.</p><p>This feeling of <em>wrongness </em>gnaws at him from within. He meets a pair of blue eyes that are not his. This body, entirely free of himself but wholly resembling himself, makes his skin crawl.</p><p>“Believe me, we’ve taken no shortcuts,” Urahara told them. “These bodies will experience pain just as you will—more so, even. Humans do not have hierros, after all. So, tread carefully.”</p><p>Grimmjow punctures his finger with a kitchen knife experimentally, and hisses at the sharp pain that follows. No blood swells. This body is not so realistic, but it does pound under the surface. It burns and aches and he curses this new development. He had sat at the end of some bed he’d found – some almost bed, some not-quite bed – and felt himself grow smaller. He had shrunk underneath his own skin, this place he once called home reduced to dust, and he experienced fear for the first time on a not so visceral level. Not the instinctual gut feeling, but the slow-moving dread at the core of his chest. The bile rising in his throat. The sudden realization that he had grown attached, had anchored himself to this place, now gone forever, and had made himself softer in the process. He had allowed himself to name this <em>home</em>, and had thus allowed himself the possibility of losing it.</p><p>Losing it, Grimmjow had learned hopelessness. And had grown desperate as a result.</p><p>This must be a product of that.</p><p>Nelliel was no savior. She did not appear enshrouded in light, bearing all of the answers. Defeat wore upon her like the weight of a thousand suns, her eyes equal parts the coldest ice and the emptiest chasm. There was no offer of a better life, no second chance, no brighter future. Only an open door, and the choice of crossing the threshold. She did not hold her hand out to him. This was, he supposed, an act of charity.</p><p>She has a way of knowing without needing to ask.</p><p>Outside she stands at the kitchen entrance wearing something that does not belong to her. The blouse a size too small. She fidgets with the buttons straining at her chest, tugging shut the fabric pulled apart. As he approaches, her eyes find his and then drop to the flannel he’d been provided. “He’s given us an address,” she informs, glancing away. “He’ll return in a moment with currency. These bodies require nourishment.”</p><p>Grimmjow flattens a hand over his abdomen absentmindedly, with some measure of disgust. To be so likened to human, to be only this step closer to them. It is the deepest insult.</p><p>On the table there is a large bag stuffed full of more clothing, folders containing both false documents with false names and lists of things they must purchase for their new living quarters. Cleaning material, linen, food. He picks through the fabric with much disinterest. How this man knew his sizes down to the <em>t</em> but provided Nelliel with ill-fitting garments is no small surprise. She will ask him for his outer wear at some point, once they’ve turned some corner out of his sight.</p><p>Grimmjow figures this is just as well. She has expressed some form of contempt toward this man once or twice and he’s never asked. He’s never felt the need to. Nelliel is an enigma he never wishes to solve. Not out of some misplaced fascination. Not for the mere sake of maintaining some perceived image of her, incomprehensible in a way that must never become so, but for the fact that he knows what lies underneath. He has seen the hell lying just beyond her gaze, the unshakable cling of phantoms at her conscience. He does not want to know because he does not want to know.</p><p>Their living quarters will be close, a single space to cram themselves into. Whether he likes it or not, there will be time to get to know regardless.</p><p>.x.</p><p>The apartment is a suitable distance away, somewhere on the outskirt of this town. It is described to them as some sort of hole in the wall, an ugly crack in the cement. The building is clay colored, mostly featureless. The face is lined with windows, barred on the outside. The entrance an open gash through which a narrow stairwell led to an equally barred door. A code, another narrow stairwell. Theirs is on the top floor, six hundred and four square feet of space. It smells of old paint and aged carpeting. The furniture crammed into the space was, also, provided by him. A tattered sofa, a small kitchen table and a pair of mismatched chairs. A bare mattress in the bedroom. Grimmjow drops the bag in the middle of the living room.</p><p>“We’ll make something of this,” Nelliel says, not entirely to him. “There is potential here.”</p><p>He picks his folder from the opened bag, thumbs through the sheets organized within. “I doubt he’ll be lending us enough money to make this place something worthwhile.”</p><p>She moves in toward the kitchen, flicks some light on and off, and then moves around toward the bedroom. “We’ll make our own.”</p><p>This wouldn’t have been Grimmjow’s first choice. But their world had become some ugly carcass of itself, a parody, a dissonant echo. He had become maddened by its deafening quiet. He had felt himself twisting <em>into </em>himself. This yawning emptiness, ever growing. Outside he hears a car honk, some woman’s voice rising, a dog bark. He flips the folder shut. “I don’t know how to identify hunger in this body,” he says absently, and Nelliel is beside him, rifling for the money.</p><p>“Let’s stock the fridge, then.”</p><p>This world is so filled with humans it is suffocating. They smell strongly. His nose burns just being near them, and he is constantly near them. As he predicted, Nelliel borrows the flannel and this solves one of her problems. Grimmjow doesn’t claim attraction but he isn’t blind. Heads turn to watch her pass, and he can see she feels the stares. She is not accustomed to this kind of attention. It triggers her fight or flight response and it is moments before she can rein it in. In their world, blood-thirst overcame all else. To be the center of attention was never a good thing, in more than just the one way. The shiver up the spine from being watched was a fatal experience. Grimmjow watches her with a different sort of interest, observing the whitening of her knuckles as she clenches her fists, the flicker of her gaze, made nervous.</p><p>Nervous, too, was a dangerous emotion to feel.</p><p>He doesn’t know the correct way to remedy this. A glare over her shoulder when a glance lingers too long, the curl of his upper lip, the display of dominance over which he has no domain. Nelliel is quicker than that, a warning frown dispels him entirely.</p><p>“Don’t,” she says, in a voice that is both soft and cold. “I don’t need your protection.”</p><p>.x.</p><p>Grimmjow stands at the kitchen counter peeling the plastic off the container of meat. It smells rancid to him, but it is a rich red. A mouthwatering red. He slices it into equal pieces and tosses them onto the pan, sizzling on the stove. He wipes his mouth.</p><p>Nelliel is somewhere on the other side of the apartment, perhaps the bedroom, organizing some of their purchases. Bed sheets, pillows, towels, toiletries. These bodies will act as human bodies do. Hair, sweat, dirt will collect under their nails and in the deepest crevices. Maintaining hygiene is vital. Inarguable.</p><p>There are four of everything in the kitchen cupboards and drawers. Four plates, four bowls, four of each silverware, four glasses and four mugs. He flips the meat to cook on their sides. A rich smell is developing, and this burn forms at the pit of his stomach. A snarl erupts. His body is curled into itself, the hunger hits him so intensely. He turns toward the fridge to bide his time. The last thing he wants is to make himself sick eating raw meat; human bodies, apparently, do not process it well.</p><p>She appears as if summoned, frowning.</p><p>“Just sit,” he sighs.</p><p>All they eat, that first time, is strips of barely done beef.</p><p>He spends some moments sitting on the couch, but can’t find the point of it. He paces the living room, parts the blinds to peer outside, and stands restlessly in the middle of the room. Nelliel folds her arms and leans a shoulder against the wall, standing by the kitchen entrance. She follows his movements with a placid gaze, far more contained.</p><p>“Humans fill their time with pointless activities,” she says, as he huffs with agitation. “We haven’t done much to curb our excess energy, and Urahara warned we’d have quite a lot of it. Considering we’ve yet to adjust to these bodies.”</p><p>“We haven’t the money to pour into <em>hobbies</em>,” he points out scathingly. “What do you suggest we do?”</p><p>“We could have a light run at one of those parks,” Nelliel says, nodding over his shoulder as if he could spot one from their window. “Humans often do that.”</p><p>Grimmjow considers this, and then pauses. “I’d rather not spend more time than absolutely necessary around them.”</p><p>“You will have to, eventually, if you mean to get a job.”</p><p>He sighs, returning to his pacing.</p><p>“Do <em>you </em>have any suggestions?”</p><p>He hesitates. He knows her answer before he even thinks to propose it. It was never quite his favorite pastime. He couldn’t fathom the point of expelling energy on something that did not involve the thrill of a fight. Physical as he is, Grimmjow could think of far better things to do. “One,” he says, with some measure of reluctance. “Just the one.”</p><p>Nelliel doesn’t catch on immediately, so he casts his gaze down her body meaningfully to make her so. She scoffs, and he continues pacing. “Spare me.”</p><p>He bypasses his retort. An argument is the very last thing he wants to waste his breath on. “Something else, then,” he relents, without a fight.</p><p>“A walk,” she says. “A very long walk.”</p><p>.x.</p><p>The first week feels the longest. They share the bed because neither one has any scruples against doing so. He cooks their meals, she washes their dishes. They take their clothes to wash, they fold them when they dry. And every day they take their very long walk, every day they fill out some other application for some other job nearby. The phone only hardly rings. At some point in the week, she discovers the public library and comes home with stacks of books. And so they read, although he has little patience for it.</p><p>The cycle repeats. Sleep, eat, shit, sleep. He showers with cold water, she showers with hot. He shaves his face in the bathroom mirror and she grimaces as she pulls a brush through her hair. In the dead of night, he turns restlessly onto this side or that, and once he catches himself facing her. In through the bare windows the moonlight pours unabashedly, and across the bridge of her nose instead of her red discoloration, there is a scattering of freckles.</p><p>He dislikes them.</p><p>He reaches across, unthinkingly, to push the hair from her forehead. It’s an inexplicable relief, to find that scar untouched. Paled against her warm brown skin. If there is one thing Urahara had gotten right, it was the choice to leave them their scars.</p><p>He still pulls faces in the mirror, but the serrated markings across his skin bring him unexpected comfort. And perhaps he had known it would. Perhaps they are just that predictable.</p><p>The silence that sits between them has become familiar, and when the day comes she finds a job he finds himself searching for her, and not wanting to admit that. She leaves early in the morning and returns late at night; dressed in a gaudy uniform, hair pinned up, smelling so heavily of humans he feels his nose wrinkle in disgust at her.</p><p>The money trickles in slowly but surely and he hates to admit that it affords them a few more luxuries he hadn’t realized they had been missing. Better food, a television, things he hadn’t realized would make thing just a little more worthwhile.</p><p>And he hates that it does.</p><p>One day he comes home from their very long walk, alone, again, and finds a welcome mat placed precariously outside their apartment. One day he steps into the living area to a lively plant sitting by the window. He watches her water it on her days off. One day he reaches out as she sleeps and pushes the hair from her face, traces the scar absentmindedly and forgets this isn’t something she would allow if she weren’t sleeping.</p><p>The placemats on the table are blue, like the sky. She waits at the table while he cooks and thanks him when he sets a plate of food before her. She is constantly tired, and less and less home.</p><p>Grimmjow watches her wash her face in the bathroom sink, the shadows grow under her eyes. These bodies are strange. They become less and less distinguishable from their originals. He reacts to his needs with less and less disdain.</p><p>One day he presses a hand to her lower back when she is readying for bed and she stills, waits, doesn’t say a word as he rubs an awkward, stumbling circle into the muscles.</p><p>They never mention that again.</p><p>.x.</p><p>It is a month before he is able to find his own job, at which point he idly tells her, “Take your days off. The laws around human labor are pretty cut and dry.”</p><p>It’s a rotation at this point. By the time their schedules begin to match up they have already found their groove within them. He starts to take jogs at the park. She starts to pin pictures to their walls.</p><p>He starts to wake to her in his arms.</p><p>They don’t mention that, either.</p><p>More and more there is more they don’t mention.</p><p>Programs on the television that capture their interest against their better judgments. The things they talk about less and less about what was, and more and more about the menial; what they want to eat for dinner, some plot twist from some book, the latest gossip from work.</p><p>He tells her, “I saw some advertisement for a movie. It looks interesting.”</p><p>“Let’s see it,” she replies, and of course they make eye contact. Or course they both know.</p><p>They both catch the flicker of confusion on their faces.</p><p>They both choose to ignore it.</p><p>.x.</p><p>Grimmjow doesn’t think he thinks of it as home. It is still an ugly apartment, plastered with niceties she purchases with a calculated thoughtlessness. Something she disguises as a whim, a “<em>look what I found at the store today, isn’t it nice?</em>”</p><p>She dries their new plates with colorful rags. She sets up a shoe rack beside the front door. She hangs curtains in their bedroom. Plugs a lamp into the wall. Fluffs up the pillows. Plays pretend that this is all a worthy substitute.</p><p>There is forever this sense of restlessness in the air, no matter how many books she piles onto their new coffee table or how many scented candles she lights. These bodies and this apartment become them, but Grimmjow still reads the tension in her body and knows it like he knows his own.</p><p>He knows it like he knows himself.</p><p>Grimmjow presses a hand firmly against her ribcage as she stirs, sleepless, in their bed. He doesn’t say a word.</p><p>He doesn’t need to.</p><p>“We can make something of this,” she sighs, just knowing. Just knowing, as she always seems to. “There is potential here.”</p><p>Grimmjow doesn’t want to answer. He doesn’t want to admit she’s right. There will always be a part of him that will stubbornly hold onto to their home, forever missing it like the structure of their ranks - forever thinking it will always be better than <em>this</em>. But she’s right. Already he misses their apartment when he is away. Already he falls into the pattern of day to day life with a resounding sigh of relief, like he’s finally shrugging on an old favorite sweater that’s been buried at the back of a closet.</p><p>And what a strange comparison to make.</p><p>Grimmjow pauses, and then skims his mouth along the curve of her shoulder.</p><p>She lets him, as if observing where this line of thought was heading them.</p><p>“Maybe there is,” he murmurs into her skin, and she takes a deep breath.</p><p>.x.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It begins as all things seem to, in this menial existence they've made out for themselves – such is the way he began ironing his own shirts, trimming the dead leaves off of her plants, learning just how she likes her coffee; it came in intervals, unspoken, and then suddenly there. He is more inclined to these thoughtless touches, tracing the pale hair grown on her arms or drifting his thumb across the shell of her ear. She always watches him, warily, never saying a single thing. But never stopping him, either. This is the only indication she ever gives she doesn't absolutely hate it.</p><p>The first time Nelliel ever touched him, willingly, he was lying beside her in bed. Sleepless, staring at the ceiling. His arm above his head, palm upturned, starting when he felt her fingertips skim across his side. Her palm flattened against his hipbone, and there was a mere second in which she traced the waistband of his shorts.</p><p>That was really all it took.</p><p>Grimmjow moved, and only briefly moved his hand across her bare thigh.</p><p>She turned away, pulling she sheets over herself. “Goodnight.”</p><p>His skin burned. He was surprised at himself, and perhaps a little disappointed in himself as well. He turned his back to her, wholly accepting her response.</p><p>It is several days later, while he is yanking on his boots on the way out to work, she appears before him. He's still bent down, in the process of straightening to address her, when she moves her hands to his throat. Every muscle in his body locks, his hand jerking as if to find his blade. The other hand, coiling tightly around her forearm. And then her thumb drifts along the underside of his jawline. Her nails scrape, all too gently, across the back of his head. Across his scalp.</p><p>It sends a shiver down his spine.</p><p>She pulls away before he can say anything.</p><p>He can think of nothing else all day.</p><p>It doesn't escape him that she doesn't seem to have the same reactions to his own ministrations. There have been times when, as she's readying herself for the day in the bathroom, he'll lay his cheek against her shoulder, his hand squeezing her hip – his lips whispering across the line of her throat. Her head will tilt to accept him, but her eyes never betrayed anything.</p><p>Times he will burn all over for her, the intention flooding the room, and she, unbothered, glancing at him from across the way. Asking him if he wanted takeout for dinner.</p><p>Him admitting he did, and quelling his desires.</p><p>She's infrequent enough that he cannot pinpoint her. He's in the kitchen, leaned back against the counter and downing some water after a long run, and she's there. Moving into his space, tilting her head to look at him. Her hands fitted against the edge of the counter as she lifts onto her toes – her mouth, open and hot, and her teeth catching across his throat and his jaw. The slide of her body, flush against his. His eyes fall shut and he turns his head unwittingly, seeking her mouth. And then it's over again, without any explanation.</p><p>Grimmjow can go on and on about how they never really had a chance to <em>truly </em>test their abilities against one another, and how there's no <em>real </em>way to tell who's stronger. But Nelliel never gives. When she rejects his advances it is with finality; a mere look is enough for him in most cases. Is this an effect of her being of higher rank, or something else?</p><p>As if Grimmjow could ever convince himself he ever respected that.</p><p>It is only through Nelliel's will that he finally gets what he wants, and although there's a part of him that naturally resents this, he doesn't have it in him to say anything. A larger part is filled with such relief it borders painful.</p><p>Nelliel is the one that kisses him first, her hands encasing his face roughly as she collided into him – some unacknowledged tension snapping between them. This pathetic moan leaves his throat as he grasps desperately at her, her clothing, her hips. Something boils underneath the surface of his skin, his arm wrapping around her waist to press himself into her.</p><p>Nelliel fits into him seamlessly, it's almost obscene. When she doesn't pry herself away after a few moments, he feels himself come undone. His mouth moving to her throat, his fingers tangling into her hair. She allows him to pull on her clothing, to access her clavicle, her shoulder. He tastes at her throat and a noise leaves her.</p><p>“Bed,” she says, catching his face again so he'll look at her. “Or not at all.”</p><p>“Fair enough,” he replies roughly, catching her elbow to half turn her. She frowns, and nearly protests when he hooks an arm under knee, lifting her. He carries her, from the living room into their tidied little room, and places her on the bed. She looks annoyed.</p><p>“I didn't like that,” she states, leaning back on her hands.</p><p>He is fixated on the reddening spots he'd left on her throat, and the untouched glimpse of her chest. “Allow me to make up for it.”</p><p>Had this been mere months ago he might not have even considered what she looked like underneath her clothing. Any other activity with her would have been more appealing than this. Grimmjow had always been aware of her beauty, but always in its weapon. Her round, hazel eyes, and the heavy black lashes, the full lips, her figure exaggeratedly feminine – all deceiving. He has watched those hands, delicately-boned and dainty, shred the meat right off of someone. Her cool, calculating eyes unmoved. Grimmjow would have been loathed to admit that in those moments, in the way she wielded her sword with such precision, he found her the most beautiful. The most breathtaking.</p><p>Nelliel's eyes are warm now, filled with expectation.</p><p>“Make up for it, then,” she says.</p><p>He moves over her, thinking briefly back to that night – that first night – and how she'd turned away then. He pauses, pressing his palm carefully against her middle. Testing.</p><p>“Will you keep me waiting, Grimmjow?” she asks, her tone smooth and languid.</p><p>He undoes the button of her shorts, assured now.</p><p>He works his way down, peeling the clothing from her body as he went. Her back arches as he kisses along her stomach, her hips angling as his tongue presses against her hipbone. He doesn't intend to torment her. His teeth scrape against her hip and her thighs move to squeeze shut. He knows there are differences between what he knows and the human body. He glances at her expression and wonders.</p><p>Sex between their kind is not uncommon, but not necessarily done out of pleasure in many cases.</p><p>Grimmjow has only ever participated in it once or twice, more disappointed with each time. It had only been an exertion of power, and not one that he found appealing enough to continue. This human body craves it, the way he at once had craved violence.</p><p>Grimmjow attempts to recall what he'd done, then. How he'd acted during those two experiences. With nothing else to use as reference, he finds himself mostly following his instinct.</p><p>He leans in to swipe his tongue across her slit, and the piercing gasp she gives propels him onward. He continues to lap at her, and uses his thumb to part her. He pushes his tongue inside, startled when her fingers twist into his hair painfully, pulling him closer as she rolls her hips up toward him. He closes his mouth around her to suck, and as he traces his fingers over her, seeking entrance, he is surprised at the slick liquid that coats them. This he's unfamiliar with, but it evidently serves a purpose. When he pushes a finger inside of her, it's with some ease. Her muscles close tight around him, and he eagerly adds another finger.</p><p>“How nice,” he comments to her, pulling up for air.</p><p>She breathes out, and he's surprised to find her eyes unfocused. “What?”</p><p>He moves his fingers within her, testing. He's briefly distracted by the heat of her. She responds, her hand wrapping around his wrist, guiding him. Riding him. He watches, swallowing. “How nice that humans can excrete lubrication. I'd imagine this would be painful without it.”</p><p>Her brow furrows, eyes shut. It's clear she isn't very interested in discussing this. Regardless, she says, “It is.”</p><p>He can only imagine how she knows that.</p><p>“More, Grimmjow,” she says, finally looking at him. Her eyes burning holes into him.</p><p>He is in the processing of adding a third finger when she reaches for him. Her hand grasping at his length firmly, squeezing intently. There is no denying what she wanted.</p><p>He rises from the bed to remove the rest of his clothing, and as he climbs back over her, she reaches again for him. Stroking, squeezing, her gaze locked on him. His breaths shuddered, his body responding instantly. So this is what the humans were so hung up about.</p><p>Well, not quite this.</p><p>Her other hand steadies against his shoulder, her eyes finding his. For the first time with uncertainty. He settles between her thighs, and they take a few moments to align themselves. And once they do, she wraps her arms around his neck and tucks her face into his shoulder, bracing herself. She tenses underneath him as he pushes in. And from there it's like a moment of clarity overcomes them. He shuts his eyes as her muscles wrap around him, as if pulling him deeper.</p><p>She whines, softly, rolling her hips upward. And her head falls back into the pillows. “Oh my god,” she whispers. He's never heard her use that phrase before.</p><p>It's fitting, he guesses.</p><p>He braces his hands against the mattress and thrusts into her, and she's entirely encouraging. She digs her heels in beneath them and matches his pace for a few beats, until he's pressing his hand down on her hip. His pace hard and fast.</p><p>Her fist braces against the headboard, and the other hand holds onto his arm, attempting to steady herself. The moans spilling from her unabashedly.</p><p>From there it's hard to explain the course of events. It's all a blur, heady and unclear.</p><p>The pleasure pounds through him until nothing else matters except this, and Nelliel. Nelliel cursing softly beneath him, her eyes rolling and then closing, her body arching into his. He can feel something rushing toward him and it would be so easy to let go, allow it to overcome him completely. But Nelliel is pleading – <em>something </em>he doesn't quite understand. A <em>don't stop</em>, when all he wants to do is let go. He forces himself to focus on anything else but that, maintaining his pace for as long as he possibly can.</p><p>He catches one of her legs, pressing it back toward her. It opens her further, and he's able to deepen his thrusts. That, he supposes, and the pleading curses that leave him does something to Nelliel.</p><p>Her eyes flutter, bright, her face flush, her mouth open. And then he feels it, the muscles fluttering around him. Throbbing.</p><p>That's it. His thrusts falter, something snaps inside of him like a rubber band and the relief is nearly instant. He feels it tremble through him, and he presses against her as close as he can.</p><p>And then it's just their breaths, filling the room.</p><p>He sits back, the strength leaving his arms for a moment, and shakes them out to return feeling to them.</p><p>Nelliel lies boneless before him.</p><p>“Are you okay?” he rasps, touching his knuckles to her cheek.</p><p>“<em>Ugh</em>,” she says, eyes still shut. She moves her head away. “Don't touch me.”</p><p>“Are you disappointed?”</p><p>“I'm exhausted.” She opens her eyes to look at him. “Not disappointed.”</p><p>He moves away, instantly noting all the fluids on him. And looks about them. He reaches for his shirt. She sits up, her hair mussed, and rolls her shoulders..</p><p>“Thank you,” she says plainly, avoiding his gaze. “That was...good.”</p><p>“This will be a regular thing now, right?” he asks, and hates that he has to.</p><p>Her lips thin, and she swings her legs over the edge of the mattress. “We'll see.”</p><p>He feels the dejection begin, which he also loathed, but then she stands. She wobbles, and then catches herself on the nightstand. “It seems I made your knees weak.”</p><p>She straightens suddenly, alert, and before he can respond she snatches his shirt from his hands and sits back down. “Leave the room.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Leave,” she says, “the room. Now.”</p><p>He pulls on his jeans and does so. He stands there for a moment before moving toward the kitchen, suddenly famished.</p><p>She opens the door again several minutes later, dressed in a fresh set of pajamas. She looks at him resentfully. “You made a mess of me.”</p><p>“You certainly didn't seem very composed,” he agrees.</p><p>“No,” she says. “We'll need to research how intercourse works for humans more carefully. This is all...very unfamiliar.”</p><p>“So it is,” he replies. “So I noticed. But we did fairly well, I'd say.”</p><p>She folds her arms, not responding.</p><p>“Are you hungry?”</p><p>“Yes,” she finally says, relaxing. “Starving.”</p><p>She sits down at the table as he prepares something, and as they eat, he feels her rest her feet over his in what he can only interpret as affection.</p><p>.x.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hope you enjoyed!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Let me know what you think!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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